Acrylic Painted Smiles
by Juliana Eschette
Summary: Lovino Vargas has been forced to move to Spain as the power struggle between his family and their rivaling criminals grow more violent on the coast of Sicily. His bodyguard, Antonio, must protect his young charge. Even if it kills him. However nothing is as it seems in this twisted world of crime. Friends turn out to be enemies, enemies are friends, and bodyguards... Take a guess.
1. Chapter 1

Acrylic Painted Smiles

Pairing: Spamano (_Spain __x__ S. Italy [Romano]/ Antonio Fernandez Carriedo __x__ Lovino Vargas_)

Setting: Sicily, Italy

Genre: Romance, Drama, Crime

* * *

**Chapter One**

He had never really been good at anything. Well, that wasn't true. He was one hell of a cook. He would always be, however, in the shadow of his younger brother's wondrous feats. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, his brother would always be twice as good. That was how it was, and how it always would be.

With a twinge of irritation, Romano closed the thick volume he had in his hands as he glared at his younger brother in the garden. Feliciano was painting again, which was a constant source of vexation for the elder Vargas. Everybody knew Feliciano was the more skilled, so why did he have to continue to upstage Romano so obviously. The elder brother knew that Feliciano was not entirely at fault, however. The younger Vargas was too airheaded to know the pressures and expectations he was placing on Romano's shoulders.

From the windowsill of which he sat, Romano watched as his younger brother casually began talking with one of the many guards that surrounded the gardens. Romano rolled his eyes. "Idiot," he whispered. How many times had he been told not to distract them? In more ways than one, Romano felt sorry for Feliciano's bodyguards. Here they were trying to be serious, and his younger brother's cheerfulness overwhelmed them every single time.

Romano could hear rushed footsteps on marble floors. Practically everything at the Vargas Estate was made of marble, so echoing was a major problem. One always had to make sure they spoke softly, or their secrets might carry all the way to the other side of the mansion.

"Master Lovino," said a gruff voice. The elder Vargas brother didn't bother looking away from the window. He knew, despite the rush in the guard's words, that there was no actual emergency. All guards sounded rushed and to the point, so Romano had learned not to worry.

"What is it?" snapped Romano.

"Your grandfather would like to see you in his study, sir."

"Very well," the young Italian nodded as he stood up. He left the book on the sill, intending to come back and finish off the last few chapters.

He walked briskly; despite the fact that he knew there was no urgency. Grandfather did not enjoy being kept waiting. In contrast to his old age, he was actually as impatient as a child.

Romano weaved left, then right, and then right again. The massive mansion would have been a death-trap to any stranger who had entered, but he had memorized the network of halls since his early childhood. It was not that the Vargas family enjoyed complicated and luxurious designs, but because they were on the defensive, that they had such a confusing hallway system.

Everything about the Vargas Estate had revolved around military advantage. They were situated at the top of a steep hill for tactical purposes, they were perfectly placed between the sea and the mountains for quick escape, and the halls had been designed to confuse any intruders the moment they stepped inside. A stranger might wonder what they were trying to hide from, but nobody really knew, save the locals of the area who were too fearful to say either way.

They were the Mafia.

"_Fratello_," said Feliciano. He had approached from the end of the other hall. "Did Grandpapa want to see you, too?"

"What does it look like?" frowned Romano.

Romano knocked on the door of the study. The door was open, of course, but there were certain protocols that even he had to follow. He may have been the second most powerful person in the Estate, but his rights were severely less than his grandfather.

"Come in," came his grandfather's sing-song voice. He sounded far too chipper for a Mafia boss.

Romano and his younger brother stepped into the study but remained by the doorway when they saw two strangers seated in front of his grandfather. One man had broad shoulders, blonde hair, and piercing blue eyes that were so clear they were like water. The other was olive skinned with dark brown hair and eyes that were a beautiful green. They were not of an overbearing hue like emeralds, but something that was perfectly dull and warm. This one was smiling.

"Lovino, Feliciano," said their grandfather. "I would like to introduce you to Ludwig Beilshmidt and Antonio Fernandez Carriedo." Romano could tell they were foreigners, but why were they here?

"_Bonjourno_," smiled Feliciano.

"_Bonjourno_," replied the large blonde. His accent was thick, and his word was hesitant.

"I'm afraid the both of them speak little Italian, Feli," explained Grandpa Rome.

"Then what they hell are these bastards doing here?" snapped Romano with a frown. Rome only chuckled. His eldest grandson had always had quite the temper.

"The family business here in Italy is being threatened," said their grandfather, suddenly serious. "As of late, our enterprise has been…" he searched for the correct word. "They have been dwindling. I cannot guarantee your safety here at the Estate anymore."

"What do you mean, Grandpapa?" asked Feliciano, obviously a little oblivious.

"What's going on?" added Romano.

"It had come to my attention that Italy may no longer be safe enough for the Vargas family. I have called on Ludwig and Antonio to act as…" he searched again. "Escorts, I suppose, for the both of you out of the country."

"We're going on a trip?" said Feliciano, wide-eyed with surprise. For his tender age of eighteen years, he was just as foolish of a child of only ten.

"Idiot," exclaimed Romano. "We're not going on a trip. We're running. I don't understand Grandpapa. We're Vargas. We never run."

"I know," his grandfather nodded sadly. "But you must understand that the situation is far more delicate than it should be. This will only be a temporary arrangement until I can stabilize the situation here."

"To hell with that," growled Romano. "I'm not a child anymore, Grandpapa. I can help. Send Feli away, not me."

"You are the heir to the Vargas family. If anything, you should be the first to get away. Do not underestimate the power of being the first born," snapped their grandfather.

Romano held his tongue. It was true. The Vargas enterprise was indeed being threatened. The political system was somewhat unstable due to the upcoming elections, the police were actually becoming more effective, and more and more rival clans seemed to be popping up out of nowhere. There had been more than ten drive-by shootings in the past three months, the streets were no longer safe because of turf wars, and high-ranking members of the Vargas were dropping like flies. It was only about time that a full-scale attack would come raining down on them.

"At least tell me why you're splitting us up," said Romano in a low voice.

"What do you mean?" frowned Feliciano, suddenly concerned.

"These 'escorts'… They are not from the same country, which means Grandpapa intends for us to go separately."

"Hot-tempered but observant," nodded Rome in approval. "If somebody indeed follows you, at least they will not be able to get you both at the same time. It's a security measure. Besides, everybody knows that there are two of you. It'll be obvious you are who you are if they spot two Italians crossing the border. Feliciano, you will be going to Germany with Ludwig. Lovino, you will be going to Spain with Antonio."

"Spain?" scoffed the elder brother. "Why Spain?"

"It's far away, but close enough to bring you back to Italy when the time comes. It's really for the best, Lovi."

"When must we leave?"

"Tonight."

* * *

Author's Note:

Buenos días mis corazones. ¿Cómo están ustedes?

I am so happy with how this story has taken off. Thank you all for reviewing. Make sure to tell all your friends! The update is coming really soon, so please look forward to it!

Don't forget to review. I love you all!

~K


	2. Chapter 2

Acrylic Painted Smiles

Pairing: Spamano (_Spain __x__ S. Italy [Romano]/ Antonio Fernandez Carriedo __x__ Lovino Vargas_)

Setting: Sicily, Italy

Genre: Romance, Drama, Crime

_**I should probably give a warning, eh? If you're not fond of foul language, well... I guess you could stop reading, but that would make me sad... Oh, well. **_

_**You have been warned.**_

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Romano did not feel at all comfortable with this Spaniard. The bastard was always smiling and greeting the locals, which was nowhere near what a bodyguard of the Vargas was supposed to do. He didn't even speak an ounce of Italian apart from 'si' and 'no,' which were the same in Spanish either way, so it hardly counted. Romano felt somewhat helpless in this foreign land, much to his irritation. He had to rely on the Spanish bodyguard to lead him everywhere, and most of the time; it was to place he cared little for.

Romano sighed, vexed. The bodyguard, Antonio, was at it again. He had out a guitar, which he strummed masterfully, allowing traditional folk tunes play out beautifully. The noonday sun beat down on the Italian, driving him even closer to the brink of anger.

"Oh, enough already!" he exclaimed in Italian. Antonio looked up with a raised eyebrow.

_"¿Que pasando, mi cariño?"_ the Spaniard asked innocently. Romano frowned. He knew he couldn't respond, and the bastard surely knew it. _"¿Tienes hambre?"Are you hungry?_

"No…" muttered Romano flatly. It was one of the few phrases that he had come to learn to understand at the grace of Antonio's overly dramatic sign language. When he first arrived in Spain, Antonio would gesture and pat his stomach when asking. Romano felt like a fool, but at least he was learning.

With that, the Spaniard shrugged and continued playing his guitar. His voice was so irritatingly amazing and smooth. It was beautiful, really, and that was what pissed Romano off the most. This man had been placed in charge of his safety, not to serenade him every chance he got.

Romano looked around the garden, having given up his quest to get the Spaniard to shut up. He didn't feel like getting up and taking the guitar from him. It looked quite old, practically antique, and it would have been a pity if it were broken or something. Romano knew all too well he had a tendency to break things when he wanted something his way. It was best to leave it as it was.

The flowers were blooming nicely in an assortment of colours. There was even a small herb garden next to the window which belonged to the house's large kitchen. The tomato vines climbed up a makeshift fence, its fruits already forming into beautiful round spheres. It was only a matter of time before they were ripe, red, and ready to eat.

Romano's eyes eventually fell back on the Spaniard. He was still wearing that smug grin of his. It was almost as if it were permanent or something. Romano frowned, but soon lost himself to the soothing music. He didn't much like Spanish music, mainly because it was hard to understand and the lyrics weren't…well… lyrical enough. It was really nothing compared to the music back home. So, instead of focussing on the notes, he focused on Antonio himself.

He had a very even tan upon his skin. It was probably from all the Spanish sun he had been exposed to over the years. His hair was equally dark, curling here and there messily. His eyes, however, were bright green that sparkled in the bright weather. They were too perfectly beautiful to belong to a bodyguard. He could have made a killing being an actor or a model or something. What a pity he decided to choose this profession. Romano swallowed, feeling his face flush red. He had stared for too long.

"_Jajaja…_" chuckled the Spaniard, having noticed. _"¡Tú estás como un tomate!"_

Romano rolled his eyes. All he caught was '_tomate_,' which he no doubt knew was referring to his sudden change in colour. "I'm warm outside here, damnit," he snapped in rapid Italian. "I want to go inside." He stood up, trying to make a point.

"¿_Qué? ¿Quieres aprender a tocar la guitara, mi cariño?"_

"What?"

"¡_Ven! ¡Voy a enseñarte!"_

Antonio reached out and grabbed onto Romano's wrist. With gentle force, he sat him back down next to him and placed the guitar on his lap. "What? No. I don't want to learn how to play this stupid thing, you bastard. I want to go inside." His Italian words were lost on the elder man, however. He proceeded to take Romano's hand and nimbly place his smaller fingers onto the strings.

"_No sé muchos canciones, pero me gusta este._"

While gently pressing Romano's fingers down, Antonio reached over his young charge's shoulder and began to strum. Romano was sure he was even redder than before. This was too close for comfort. Nobody back home would have dared to come so near. Or rather, they were too fearful to. At the very mention of the name Vargas, people would often take a step back in either shock or suspicion. People had learned not to trust the name unless they were a part of the Family.

It was calming, however. Antonio began humming a tune next to Romano's ear. The Italian could practically feel his breath on his skin. It sent shivers done his spine, but for some reason, he didn't tell him to stop. It had been a while since Romano had felt the warmth of another. It was almost intoxicating, really. Antonio smelled so… fresh.

The song filled the empty garden, the birds chirping almost in time to the strumming pattern that Antonio so skillfully played.

"_Muy bien,_" he smiled to Romano. "_Muy talentoso_."

Though his Spanish was limited, Romano could tell he was being complimented. He squirmed slightly. He wasn't used to somebody praising him. As the eldest Vargas son, it was expected from him that he was nothing short than perfect. Unfortunately, his younger brother had a nasty gift of doing everything better. Romano swallowed uneasily. His chest felt tight. It wasn't necessarily uncomfortable or painful, but it was a sensation he was completely unused to. Antonio was so close. Maybe a little too close…

"Stop already!" snapped Romano. Antonio moved his arm and allowed the Italian to slip out. The Spaniard had a confused expression on his face. He clearly couldn't read the atmosphere.

He simply let out a chuckle, his smile stretching from ear to ear. "_Está bien. Tenemos que ir a sus clases de español ahora con Bella._"

Ah. Bella. That was a name Romano loved to hear. The beautiful Belgian girl would have come with her brother to visit relatives for a few months in Madrid. She even spoke a little Italian, which was a huge relief. Romano would have struggled greatly in his first few weeks in Spain had it not been for her. She had wanted to be a teacher of languages, or so he heard.

Bella was waiting in one of the many rooms in the massive house Romano's Grandfather had owned back in his younger years. He had been a world traveller, Romano had heard, before he was made the head of the Vargas family due to a sudden death in the family. Everything had an ancient look about it in this house. Almost Roman, actually. Grandpa had always been a sucker for that sort of thing.

"_Buenos dias, Lovino,_" she practically sang. "_Listo?_"

"Do I have to learn today? It's too hot to study."

"We can always open the windows," she giggled. "I heard Antonio playing the guitar in the garden," she commented as she sorted through a couple of things on the table before her. "He's quite good, isn't he?"

"Whatever," muttered Romano as he opened the large windows on the other side of the room. He sat on the window sill, feeling a small breeze drift by.

"If you want, we can take lessons outside," the Belgian girl suggested sweetly.

"Nah. I don't like it. The sun's too strong here."

Bella giggled. "I thought it got unbelievably hot in Italy during the summer, no?"

"Sometimes. I dunno."

"Alright…" She walked over and sat down next to Romano on the window ledge with a small packet of notes resting on her lap. "Can you please conjugate the verb '_estar_' for me, please?"

Romano sighed. "_Estoy, estás, está… estamos, están._"

"Good. And what does it mean?"

Romano hesitated. "I forgot," he said after a moment.

"Oh, surely you know. _Estoy aquí para enseñarte_. What does '_estoy_' mean in that sentence?"

Romano squinted. "I am, I believe."

"Very good. That must mean…?"

"'_Estar'_ is 'to be'."

"Excellent."

"Why does that bastard sound so much different from you?" asked Romano after a couple other verbs.

"Pardon?"

"His accent. It's different from yours. Is that because you speak Dutch?"

"Ah," nodded Bella. "He's speaking Catalan. Well, mostly. I noticed that he slips in and out of it. I'm sure he's trying to make it easier for you to learn by switching to Castilian."

Romano frowned. "What? I thought Spaniards spoke Spanish."

"It's confusing, isn't it?" she almost laughed. "To the rest of the world they speak Spanish, but the Spanish people have different dialects within the country. The majority of them speak Castilian."

"But Antonio speaks Catalan?"

"Both, I believe. There are a few differences between the two languages, but it's overall understandable if you're fluent. I believe they speak Catalan on the Mediterranean coast."

Romano let out an exhausted sigh. "This language crap is confusing."

"It's alright," comforted Bella with a small smile. "I'm sure you'll get the hang of it."

The remainder of the lesson was a bore, despite Bella's efforts to make Romano a little more enthusiastic. Her constant encouragement was appreciated, but it became somewhat annoying by the end of the hour.

Romano's eyes wandered around the room until they rested just beneath the door. There was a shadow that could be seen between the space between the door and the floor. It was no doubt Antonio, guarding the hallway. He would have entered the room, but there was too much space to cover outside. Besides, there was no place safer than within his own grounds. There was really no need for direct protection.

"_Cena es lista, Señorita Bella_. ¿_Tienen hambre?_"

"_¡Si!_" called out Bella. "Come along, Lovino. Dinner's ready."

"I heard," nodded the Italian as he stood up. It was growing cooler rather rapidly.

Bella opened the door, revealing Antonio's overly joyful smiling face. Romano rolled his eyes. Didn't this bastard have a job to be serious about? What on Earth was his grandfather thinking when he chose his personal bodyguard?

"¿_Como fue?_" he asked.

"_Bien, pero nosotros tenemos necesitar un poco mas trabajar._"

"_Claro que si._" Antonio turned to Romano, his grinning having not disappeared. "_Como fue, mi cariño?_"

"Piss off, bastard," said Romano hurriedly as he pushed past him.

"_Comprendí 'bastardo.'"_ The Spaniard laughed.

"_No te preocupes. No es mas que hambre_," said Bella with a giggle.

The dining room was smaller than Romano was used to, but that was probably because his grandfather was always hosting dinner parties and required a large hall to support all of the guests. It wasn't that he minded or anything. It was cozier, just like the kitchen his mother used to cook in back on the coast of Sicily. He had many fond memories in the kitchen. Sure, he could cook, but he refrained from it. It was just as well, too. Feliciano was always so much better at it. His mother would always have compliments for the both of them, however. That's what he loved and missed about his mother. She would never show favoritism. His grandfather, on the other hand, was a different story.

"Ik moest iets eenvoudigs vanavond koken. De markt was al uit de tomaten en de verkopers leek te bang om met me praten," said Bella's elder brother, Nathan. He was a frighteningly large and blunt man. Every word that came out of his mouth sounded like a threat, but Romano knew better than to say anything. He was the cook, after all. There was no telling what he could put in his food while he wasn't watching.

Before Romano had a chance to eat, a loud banging could be heard at the door. It was almost startling, mainly because it was unexpected and in the near dead of night. Romano's heart skipped a beat. They weren't expecting anybody. No. And the way the violent echoes carried through the halls, the rapid fraps at the door, could not mean a friendly visitation from the locals.

No. Something was wrong. Everybody could tell. Antonio shot a quick look towards Romano and stood up, dinner completely forgotten. He waited a moment, as if waiting for further proof to see if his young charge was in danger. When the sound of bullets fired outside, they knew.

"Get that fucking brat," a malicious voice cried out in Italian. Romano stood up.

_Shit_, he thought. _How'd they find me_?

"Surround all the exits. I want this Vargas' head on a silver platter, you got me? Get that little asshole."

"_Romano_," snapped Antonio. "_Ven conmigo_."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order. And it was the first time Romano had seen his bodyguard like this. His carefree smile was gone, as was that light in his beautiful green eyes. Instead remained something colder, darker, almost unforgiving. There was no more singing-tone upon his voice, either. It had grown low and vicious. It sent chills up and down Romano's spine. This wasn't the Spaniard he knew. No. He was gone. This was somebody completely different.

"_Bella, Nathan_," he said to the two.

"_Sabemos_," they said together in unison. They left the room immediately, having understood orders that needn't be said. Romano would have followed, but Antonio had caught grasp of his wrist with one hand, and he held a gun in the other.

"Where are they going?" asked Romano quickly, but just as quickly remembered his bodyguard spoke no Italian.

"_No te preocupes, mi cariño. __Ven conmigo._"

Antonio dragged Romano closely behind him, quickly glancing in both directions before entering the hallway. His gun was raised, almost poised, on an invisible target before them, ready to fire. The loud Italian voices grew louder, approaching from God knew where. The house was huge, however. It would take a swarm of Italian gangsters to flush the entire thing out. Perhaps that was why his grandfather had chosen such a place so many years ago. The twisting walls and maze-like gardens would grant them enough time to escape.

But even time had to run out at some point, as would their luck.

* * *

Author's Note:

Hello everybody! Here's chapter two! I hope you don't mind the grammatical lessons in there? It corresponds with a Spanish project that I'm working on in school. It's actually quite interesting. The Spaniards don't actually speak Spanish! If you want to do some research on the different accents of Spain, I highly recommend it! It's sort of like how Chinese people don't actually speak "Chinese." They speak Mandarin, Catonese, Shanghainese, etc. There's no such thing as "Chinese."

Anyway. I hope you enjoyed.

Please remember to review and let your friends know!

With lots of love,

~K

PS: I was going to translate everything in Spanish and Dutch for you, but I got sort of lazy. I'm sorry! I tried to keep it all very basic so some of you could understand a little bit here and there.


	3. Chapter 3

Acrylic Painted Smiles

* * *

Chapter Three

Antonio had never been taken seriously, and that was everybody's fatal mistake. Sure, he looked aloof and never seemed to take anything seriously, but he was one of the best body guards in all of Europe for a reason. Why else would the Vargas have chosen him, of all people? They were wise, crafty people who needed equally sly protectors. When Antonio had heard he had been selected out of hundreds to protect the heirs of the Vargas Family, he had been ecstatic. He had already been assigned and so shortly after his training, too! Yes, he was inexperienced, but he was young and alert and not yet scarred by bitter memories that came with the job…

He had been driving for two hours straight now. The coast was clear, but he knew better than to stop before they reached the border. Lovino had fallen asleep in the passenger seat, his head resting against the car door window. Night had already blanketed the sky with stars, and the temperature had dropped to just above freezing. That's how it was in Spain. Hot days made for cool nights. From the corner of his eye, he watched Lovino. This boy, this client, this _child_… He was surprisingly calm considering what had happened. Most people would be too frightened to even think or speak. He had just been attacked, after all, but here he was, sleeping as he gently breathed in and out.

"Are you tired?" asked Antonio softly. There was no response, of course. "I was really quite scared, to tell the truth. I guess I always am. I don't think I got involved with the right job. I'm just lucky I have you, I guess. I wish you spoke Spanish, but it is better this way. I can complain all I want and not get fired." He chuckled softly.

They arrive at what was little more than an old, practically rotting shack in the middle of nowhere. There used to be a town in these parts, but that was a long time ago. All that was left was the shake and an unmanned gas station with only one pump.

"Where are we?" asked Romano, suddenly waking up after the car had come to a stop. He looked around.

"_Necesito hablar por teléfono_," explained the Spanish bodyguard. "_Resta aquí, ¿vale?_"

Romano watched as Antonio got out of the car and walked briskly to the rusted phone booth by the gas station hobble. Short calls were not only cheap, but difficult to trace. Romano watched. Antonio's mouth was moving rapidly, sticking to short-worded sentences to save time.

There was some sort of uneasiness in his stomach, however. Romano had learned that trusting his instincts was dangerous, but this time he was absolutely sure. The way Antonio's eyes shifted back and forth, the way he shuffled his feet as he stood… There was something wrong with this whole picture, and things were not looking up.

Just as Antonio made his way back to the car, Romano got out before the Spaniard could reach for the door handle.

"_¿Qué pasando?_" asked the bodyguard. Romano hit his lip and frowned, his gaze at Antonio's feet. "_¿Tienes frío?_ _No te preocupes. Tengo una–_"

"Your shoe laces are untied," commented the Italian without any gestures.

"_¿Oh_, _verdad?_" said Antonio as he looked down the check.

Romano drew his gun. "Bastard," he hissed. He knew it. This fool wasn't so foolish after all.

"_¿Qué es la problema? No comprendo_."

"Don't fuck with me, asshole. You reacted. You understand Italian perfectly. Who were you talking to on the phone?"

"_Romano, escúchame_."

"Shut the fuck up," snapped the Italian. His hands were shaking, though he knew not why. He had been trained to shoot since the day he was big enough to handle the recoil. He was a crack shot, and ace shooter, so why? "Where are you taking me? The checkpoint isn't a place, you bastard. It's a password. My grandfather would have told you that. Who the fuck did you just call?"

"_Escúchame. Tengo amigos quien pueden ayudarnos._"

"The Vargas Family never asks for help. That's not our way."

"So you speak Spanish after all," commented the Spaniard in Italian coolly. It was perfectly spoken, every punctuation and accent. Romano paled. "It looks like you haven't exactly been honest with me, either," continued Antonio.

"Screw you. I don't have to be honest. I'm your fucking boss."

"Actually, no," said Antonio with a shake of the head. "Your grandfather is my boss."

"Fuck you. Since when has that been the case?"

"Please, calm down, Lovino."

"Calm down? Why on Earth should I? I could just shoot you now and go home."

"It's your grandfather, Lovino. He has a plan."

"I highly doubt it was his intention to bet me stuck in the middle of nowhere with a bastard like you."

"I'm afraid to say that it was."

Romano blinked. "What?"

"Your grandfather wanted me to… distract you, I guess. Is that how you say it in Italian?" Antonio scratched behind his ear, trying to think.

"Distract me," echoed Romano. He was confused, and that was plain to see from the expression on his face. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"You know better than anybody that violence against the Vargas has increased over the past few months. Your grandfather wanted you out of the country. I guess he thought you'd tried to get involved and probably end up killing yourself or–"

"Shut the fuck up! I know how to take care of myself. If I die for the Family, at least it's a better option than hiding in Spain like a coward."

Antonio chuckled nervously. "He said you'd say that. That's why you're here, Lovino. He said your pride would get you killed. He thought the farther away you were, the less he would have to worry. He's only trying to protect you."

"I said to shut up, bastard," snapped Romano. "I need to think."

"Could you do it in the car? I don't want you to get caught by those nasty friends of yours."

Somehow, Romano found himself back in the passenger seat, but this time he wise wide awake and extra paranoid. He sat extremely still, almost to the point where it began to hurt. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, but what he was focussing on was the idiot beside him driving the car. Romano felt stupid. Not once had he question why he had been sent away to Spain. Not until now. His grandfather didn't trust him. That's why he was here. All those years of language lessons, arms mastery, and self-defence and Rome still didn't trust him! Romano clenched onto the gun which he rested on his lap, his knuckles turning white from his stressed grip.

Romano had given up looking out the window. The sun was rising just above the horizon by the time they reached their destination. It was a small town, buildings having been built along the jagged mountain walls. They were little brownish-red huts that jutted out from every place possible, cramped together so tightly that they looked as though they were stacked upon each other from a distance. The land was dry, the sandy ground practically begging the skies for water. The rain would not come, though. It hadn't in a long time. As the car drove on a little further, a large dust cloud was left in its tracks.

"So," said Antonio softly. They were arriving at the edge of the town. The early rising farmers were already busy at work, attempting to keep their fields healthy. "You speak Spanish."

"Clearly," muttered Romano.

"You could have told me, you know. I could have saved you the trouble of all those lessons."

"Bella needed the work, didn't she? That's why she came to Spain. She was looking for a job." Antonio raised an eyebrow.

"That was thoughtful of you."

"Shut up. Why didn't you start with Italian?"

"The language hurts my head. It's hard for me to translate."

Romano rolled his eyes. _Damn bastard_.

"Do you think you could be the gun away? You might scare off the locals."

"Where are we?" asked Romano, ignoring the request. He didn't trust this bastard. He didn't trust him to begin with, but especially not now. Not now after knowing this wasn't what Antonio had been hired to do. Romano was no longer the priority. Not really, anyways. He was just the packaged deal that came along with his grandfather's orders.

"This is my hometown. There's no place safer."

The air was thicker here, almost suffocating, but at the same time it was pleasant. It was incredibly warm so early in the morning. The sun was already bright and blinding by the time they reached a house near the center of the town. It was a well-kept place, despite the dryness that seemed to hide in every corner. There were decorative trees and shrubs lining the sidewalks, street signs were polished and practically brand-new, and the smell of fresh cuisine could already be smelled on the wind's breath.

Antonio got out of the car after he had parked it in the shade of the house's garage. Romano followed, as cautious as ever.

"_Tonio_," cheered a small voice. Romano turned and saw a little girl running towards the bodyguard, arms stretched out to receive a hug. She was dressed in a yellow sundress decorated with a floral pattern of sunflowers. Her brown hair had been tied up into two pigtails on the side of her head with matching white ribbons. Romano guessed that she was seven or eight, judging by her height.

"_Isabella,_" laughed Antonio. He knelt down and snatched her up in his strong arms. He lifted her up, smiling like an idiot. "_¿Cómo estás?_"

"_Bien_," she said sweetly, eying Romano suspiciously.

"Don't worry, _chica_. This is Lovino Vargas. Lovi, this is Isabella. She's the gardener's daughter."

Romano nodded and smiled. "It's nice to meet you." Isabella blushed. She was such a sweet little thing.

"_Francis está esperando para ustedes. Bella y Natán están aquí, también._"

"_Gracias, chica_," smiled Antonio. He lowered Isabella back down and watched as she hurried around the corner.

"Bella and Nathan are here?" muttered Romano.

"Yes. I sent them on ahead to let him know we were coming?"

"Let who know?"

"Francis is an old friend of mine. He owes me a favour, so I requested that we stay with him for a while at his vacation home while things settle down back in Italy. Come, I shall introduce you to him."

"W-wait," stuttered Romano. "Did you say _Francis_?"

"Yes."

"As in Francis Bonnefoy?"

"Yeah. Do you know him? Oh, this is great! How do you know of him?"

"I don't know him personally. Only by reputation. Grandfather used to talk about him a lot. He runs our operations in Paris."

They walked together through the hallway. Romano glanced around. It was awfully small in comparison to his grandfather's mansion in Madrid. He had heard numerous times that Francis Bonnefoy was a man of extreme taste. The décor, on the other hand, seemed to say otherwise.

"_Antonio, mon ami!_" exclaimed the blonde man. His hair was practically down to his shoulders, but he had tied it up in a messy ponytail. "You look like shit, _mon amour_."

"I could say the same to you," chuckled Antonio. They clapped each other on the back, laughing away like imbeciles. "Francis, this is Lovino Vargas. Lovi, Francis."

"Well, aren't you a cute one?" commented Francis in broken Italian. _Cute_? Surely he had misspoken. "You don't really take on after your grandfather, I must say."

"That seems to be a popular opinion," nodded Romano. It wasn't the first time somebody had noticed, either. For some reason, despite being a direct descendant, Romano looked nothing like his grandfather. Feliciano was the fortunate one to have all his good looks.

"Welcome to _La Jonquera,_" the Frenchman said with a wink.

* * *

Author's Note:

I'm still hungry. Somebody offered tamales, but I never got them. D: Just kidding.

I hope you enjoyed chapter three. I didn't much enjoy it. I guess I'm just getting lazy.

I promise some actual development with the romance and everything, I just hit a writer's block, is all.

~K

PS: I heard Sweden won Eurovision. Send my congrats from Canada! I was totally confused. My Tumblr was filled with all this Eurovision stuff, and I was like, "W-what? What is this awesome madness?" I heard Antonio was singing love songs to Romano, but the Italian refused to give him any points. :p I think it's cannon, eh?


	4. Chapter 4

Acrylic Painted Smiles

* * *

Chapter Four

Isabella poked her head around the corner to find Romano sitting by the vegetable garden. Romano was inspecting the numerous budding flowers and green stalks. He caught a glimpse of the little Spanish girl and smiled. "_Buongiorno_!" he said, beaming. The girl, too fascinated by the Italian's charismatic air, could only blush and dash back towards the main house.

"She likes you," commented Francis. He had been pulling out weeds since the early hours of morning. The gardener was currently in town buying ingredients. As it turned out, the gardener was also the house cook. That didn't leave Nathan with a whole lot of work to do, but the tall blonde did little to complain.

"Sweet girl," mutter Romano with a shrug of the shoulder.

"She's almost as sweet as you."

Romano frowned at the Frenchman's comment, but ended up saying nothing. It was too beautiful today to be upset. They had a grand view of the Pyrenees from where they were. "Tell me about him," he said after a moment.

"About whom, _mon cher_?"

"Tell me about that Spanish bastard. Despite all the talking that he does, he never talks about himself."

"Ah," nodded Francis. "There's not much to tell, really."

"What about his family?"

Francis flashed a sad grin. "Most people who end up in this profession don't really have family. Why else would he join?"

"Do you know what happened?"

"Not really. He doesn't talk about his childhood very often…"

Romano breathed. The air was fresh and crisp. It was nothing like the summer days in Italy where the sun was always shining and the salty sea showered the beaches with salty sand and shells. It was chilly in this part of Spain.

"Would it satisfy your curiosity to know that we were lovers?" asked the Frenchman with a raised eyebrow. Romano blinked.

"W-what?"

"We were lovers, he and I. We were young and wild. We'd spend summers in an absolute haze and wonder."

Romano was speechless, wondering if it was as joke. His heart seemed to sink to the pit of his stomach, though he knew not why.

"I'm only kidding, Lovino," laughed the Frenchman.

"That's not fucking funny!" frowned the bitter Italian.

"I thought it was. You should have seen your face."

"Bastard."

"You looked awfully jealous."

"Shut up, asshole. I was not."

"You were, don't deny it. You should see how red your face is."

"Fuck you!" exclaimed Romano.

"Oh, don't be like that. I'm only teasing you," chuckled Francis. He sat down on edge of the garden box next to Romano, who had crossed his arms across his chest. The Frenchman reached into his back pocket of his pants and pulled out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. He held it out to Romano. "You want one?"

"No, thank you."

"Funny. I thought all Italians smoked," shrugged Francis as he drew a slim cig, placed it to his lips, and lit it fluently before putting the lighter and box back where he had got it from. The fumes wafted into the air, but were carried off quickly by the breeze.

"My grandfather doesn't approve," said Romano. The smell was sickly sweet. He did his best not to breathe in much.

Francis scoffed.

"What?" demanded the Italian.

"I would have figured that the heir of the almighty Vargas would be a little more independent."

"Whatever. I don't like smoking."

"You're father smoked, if I recall correctly."

"You knew him?"

"Everybody did. He was a good guy. Great business partner, too. What happened to him in the end was a shame, though…"

Romano nodded sadly. It was just short of his tenth birthday. There was supposed to be a huge dinner party to celebrate, but crime families rarely ever _not_ get their parties crashed by some vengeful asshole who wants control over the region. Romano hadn't been there when it happened, and a part of him was sort of glad. He could remember Feliciano crying for days, his eyes all red and puffy. Fate was cruel that way, he supposed.

"We got the bastard a week later, so I guess I'm sort of over it."

"That's twisted, _mon cher_."

"How do you mean?"

"Couldn't you have found peace of mind without seeking revenge?"

Romano blinked. "It's a part of the job. It's the way we live. It's an eye for an eye."

Francis shrugged as he exhaled, smoke escaping from his lips in a flowing stream. He hummed, thinking.

"What?" snapped Romano.

"Big words for such a small boy."

"Shut up, bastard!" Romano frowned and stood. Francis grasped onto his wrist and tugged him back down to his spot.

"Relax," chuckled the Frenchman. "You Italians. You need to learn how to breath."

"Whatever," muttered the Italian with a pout.

"Do you want some advice?"

"Not really."

"Well, tough. I'm going to give you some. Antonio doesn't know his own limits. That's why he's so successful in this job, okay? But he's a sensitive ass. He doesn't know when to quit. Sometimes I wonder if he's just smiling because he has to. You should have seen him when he was a kid. He had a certain… _je ne sais quoi_. He had life. Do you understand?"

"Not really," admitted Romano.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is… Don't let him get distracted. By anything. Otherwise he'll lose focus. When he loses focus, that might end up with you dying, _d'accord_? The situation in Italy is already unstable as it is."

Francis took a long drag from the cigarette between his fingers. Romano watched, reflecting upon the words that he had just heard. Distractions… What distractions? Antonio seemed aloof to begin with, so where was this all coming from?

"Whatever," sighed Romano as he stood up.

"Lovino~!" called Antonio from the kitchen's backdoor. The tall Spaniard bodyguard walked over with a happy bounce in his step to where the Italian and Frenchman were.

"Speak of the devil…" commented Francis softly.

"What do you want, bastard?" snapped Romano when Antonio arrived before him.

"Your brother's on the phone," informed Antonio. "Such a cute boy. Feliciano… The name practically rolls off your tongue, no?"

"Shut up, creep. That's my brother you're talking about," huffed Romano as he brushed past him towards the kitchen. The phone was on hold, sitting on the counter top.

Antonio watched Romano walk indoors. He was paying attention even when everybody thought he wasn't. Once Romano was inside, he turned his attention back to Francis.

"I heard him shouting earlier…" sighed Antonio as he sat down where Romano had once been.

"He's got quite a mouth on him."

"It's a part of his charm," the Spaniard shrugged with a chuckle. "What did you say to him?"

"Nothing much. I just wanted to see what he was made of."

"That's not your job."

"I can have a little fun while ol' Rome isn't watching, can't I?"

Antonio laced his fingers together and placed his hands on his lap. In thought, he ran his tongue along his lower lip quickly. "He's not ready," he said in a quiet, low voice.

"What gave him away?" the Frenchman rolled his eyes.

"If only his father were alive to take over…"

"Yes, it would be much simpler. We're running out of time, too."

"What have you heard?"

"We lost our contacts in England," informed Francis with a cold look in his eyes. "And our operations in the States are dwindling as well. Four of our informants are already dead, and three others are trying to escape into Canada."

"Do you think they'll make it?"

"Once you run," said Francis between a drag, "you'll always run. That's the way this game is played. All they're doing is buying time for Rome back in Italy."

Antonio nodded sadly. He knew this all too well.

"You said his brother called?" asked Francis as he stepped on the cigarette bud, putting it out. The fumes were already disappearing on the wind's breath.

"Yes."

"How's Ludwig? I haven't seen that little _fleur_ since he was twelve."

"He seems to be alright. There wasn't much of a conversation."

"And Gilbert? Any news from the Eastern Front?"

Antonio shook his head sadly. His old friend and elder brother of the other Vargas bodyguard had been sent to set up contacts and escape routes into Russia if it ever came to such an instance. That was over a year ago. The area he had been sent to was rather remote, but there would have been some sort of communication. A letter, a short text, an e-mail… Something. But no. In fact, knowing Gilbert, his location would have been national news. He would have found some sway to make his presence known. Silence wasn't exactly his forte. Gilbert was off the radar, though. Maybe that was his intent. Maybe that was a part of his mission.

"I see," frowned Francis.

"Things don't seem to be looking up in Sicily, do they?" pondered Antonio in a hushed whisper.

"No. This might be the end of the Vargas reign."

"It's not over until they get to Lovino or Feliciano, and I'm not going to let it happen either way," muttered the Spaniard.

Francis shrugged. "You should take him far away. Out of Europe. I doubt there's anywhere you can hide, but at least you can try. New names, new lives, the whole shebang."

"I don't think he'd like that. He's too proud."

"I'm well aware."

"But if you _could _take him, _mon cher_… Would you?"

"No," said Antonio quickly. "I'm not really the decision maker. You know that. Whatever Rome tells me to do, I do. I just follow him around."

Francis placed a hand on Antonio's shoulder, looking him square in the eye. "This is not the life you deserve, _mon cher._" He leaned in close, their noses practically touching. "You shouldn't need to follow this _child_ around."

"Francis," said Antonio. There was an edge to his voice. A warning. "You know why I got involved. Don't change my mind."

"Lost love is something everybody must deal with. I know they killed your family, but getting revenge through this boy isn't the way to go. You might get everybody killed without it being your intent."

Antonio stood up. "You read me like a book, don't you?"

"I pay attention to the fine print, is all."

"We have a common enemy, Francis. What's so wrong about using the Vargas' connections to get to them? Their family is trying to kill off Lovino's. Their family killed mine. I think everybody wins when there are two hunting parties going after one."

"What of Lovino, Tonio?"

Antonio frowned. Why was Francis bringing the Vargas heir into this? "What about him?"

"Don't you think he'll be hurt to know you're just using him?"

"I'm not using him. I'm doing my job like I've been hired to."

"And what about when it's all said and done. What will happen when you get what you want? That's the only reason you're here with the boy. You may be doing your job, but it is not your intention to stay."

"He doesn't want me around, anyway..."

"That's not a very worthy answer."

"Oh, hush," snapped Antonio. "I'll figure it out when I get there."

"As easygoing as always, I see," chuckled Francis.

Romano strummed his fingers on the kitchen counter's surface. Feliciano was rambling on and on about his new life in Germany. Everything was extraordinary, apparently.

"Ve~" said Feliciano. Romano could tell his brother was wearing that same large smile on his face that he always had on. "And Ludwig is teaching me German, too. It's such a weird language. I can't make sense of it. Oh! And then we went to this huge library in downtown Berlin and then we found this little gift shop owned by this little old man. He gave me one of the trinkets for free because he thought I was a child."

"You are a child," said Romano quickly, butting into the conversation. The elder brother felt out of breath just listening to the Italian on the other end of the line. "What do you want, Feli? Our phone calls can't be long."

"Oh~" giggled Feliciano over the receiver. "I got a message from Grandpapa."

"Well?"

"He wants us to visit him at Vatican City."

Romano frowned. "What? Why? Is it safe?"

"I guess so!" laughed his younger brother. "Grandpapa said so, so I have no reason to say why not…"

"Very well," nodded Romano. "We'll get there as soon as we can. Are we meeting at–"

"_Belizza_," interrupted Feliciano so quickly it didn't sound like a word.

"Why not our regular place?"

"I don't know. Go ask Grandpapa. He chose it. Okay. I have to go now. Bye, _fratello_!"

"Yeah, yeah. Bye."

He hung up the phone.

(~)(~)(~)

Ludwig groaned. His head was pounding violently, his knuckles were bloodied and bruised, and every limb of his body was numb to the point of disbelief. His large blue eyes looked up at his frightened Italian charge, and then at the gun barrel pointed to Feliciano's temple. The Vargas heir hadn't moved an inch the entire phone call.

"Corisca," hissed Ludwig.

The shady individual next to his young charge didn't spare the injured bodyguard a glance. He simply took the cellphone that he had placed by the Italian's ear and put it back in his pocket. He was slender, this assailant, with cold green eyes. Eyes of greed.

"Well done, Mr. Vargas," he grinned devilishly. "A little over the top and fast, but generally well done."

"Please, _signore_, don't hurt Ludwig anymore. Please," shivered Feliciano. His eyes were watering. He wished to God his brother was here. Romano always knew what to do. And if he didn't, he could always find the courage to pretend he was the better man in the room.

"Begging doesn't suit the Vargas family," David Corisca clicked his tongue.

"Please," said Feliciano again. His face felt red. It was probably from all the punches he had received a few hours earlier. He didn't complain, though. What they had done to Ludwig seemed to have been far worse. The German, however, did little to show is pain. "Please, don't hurt my brother."

"And why should I listen to you, little boy?" asked the rivaling Family's head gunman. Feliciano didn't know how to respond. He was ashamed that he had to be, it was true, but it was all he could do at this point. The metal handcuffs that had him connected to the chair he was upon was cutting into his wrists. The uncomfortable burn made his squirm in his seat.

"You Vargas," sighed Corisca. "You think you can push as around and expect us to listen? God. You have some nerve."

"Leave him alone," snapped Ludwig from his spot on the floor. They had broken a few ribs, which were no doubt threatening to punch holes into his lungs. His voice was too quiet to hear clearly.

"What was that? You may need to speak up."

"Leave him alone," the bodyguard said again.

Corisca walked over calmly, his heals clicking against the cement basement floor. He kneeled down, his knee against Ludwig's head. The German grunted under the weight, but he said nothing. All he had to offer was a fiery glare and a snarl of derision.

"Don't worry. I'll leave him be until his brother arrives. Then I can put you out of your misery."

"_Signore_," whined Feliciano in a small voice. He didn't like this. Not one bit. "Please…"

"You worked well, Mr. Vargas. Didn't you say yourself you wanted to see your brother again? You're little trap will do just that, my dear Italian. And then you can see your brother and grandfather for the rest of eternity in Hell."

And with maniacal laughter and a final kick to the German's chest, the brute was gone.

"Ludwig," called Feliciano gently. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

The German bodyguard didn't respond.

* * *

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading! Please remember to review! I always love getting reviews! :3


	5. Chapter 5

Acrylic Painted Smiles

* * *

Chapter Five

Romano held the gun in his hands, inspecting it in the back seat of the car. It was a standard issue Berretta, but it had been his father's. To most people, picking up a weapon was just that; a weapon. But this had significance to the eldest Vargas heir. His father had been a crack shot. It was said that he never missed his mark. Every bullet had its purpose, and every target was hit dead centre. You could say that it was the reason why Romano was, himself, an ace shooter. In comparison to his younger brother, he was practically ready to be a sniper. Feliciano had never liked guns, or violence, for that matter. It was the one aspect where Romano was known to excel, and he intended to keep it that way.

"I don't think you'll need that," commented the Spanish bodyguard in the driver's seat. Antonio glanced back at his charge with his large green eyes in the rear-view mirror. "It sort of defeats the purpose of my being here with you."

"Shut up," snapped Romano. "I never fire this gun anyway."

Antonio raised an eyebrow but said nothing more. Romano had been acting a bit differently ever since his little 'chat' with Francis back in _La Jonquera. _What could it have been about? The Spanish bodyguard decided not to press the matter, however. Romano looked like he could use some sleep, and asking him prying questions would surely only worsen his mood. It could have also been the fact that he was going back to Italy; back to the frontlines.

"Hey…" said Romano slowly, his voice barely above the rumble of the car tires.

"Yes, Lovino?"

Romano bit his lower lip, pondering in thought. Francis' words were echoing in his head. _We were lovers, he and I. _The Italian could feel his cheeks redden slightly, though he swore to God he didn't even know why. "Nothin'…" he muttered.

Antonio shrugged again and placed his attention back to the road.

_We were young and wild._

431 kilometers left until Vatican City. It wasn't an ideal road trip, but it was better than nothing at all. European scenery could be quite beautiful. It was just a shame that it was so dark. Romano could barely see anything under the dim lighting along the highway.

_We'd spend summers in an absolute haze and wonder._

Romano rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Ah. So tired…

_I'm only kidding, Lovino_.

That French bastard, thought Romano bitterly.

_You looked awfully jealous._

"Like hell I did, asshole," he muttered quietly to himself.

"What was that?" inquired Antonio, not having heard.

"Nothing. Quit asking me."

_Stato della Città del Vaticano,_ also known as Vatican City, was booming and bustling with life. Random tourists filled the streets instead of actual residents, old architecture was busily being protected and reserved, and the heated sun above shone harshly down upon Antonio's head as he got out of the car. The bodyguard took a scan around. This particular street was empty, save a wandering stray dog sniffing its way down the cobblestone street.

The Belizza was a small restaurant hidden away between two larger buildings that were dedicated to the tourists as an information centre and gift shop in the center square. It was a good meeting place, and also a very good place to get lost. That was why Antonio had parked the car around the corner. He had no doubt that, if Lovino was being targeted, that it would be safer approaching the intended destination with several options of escape.

Antonio hated crowds. There were just too many variables; too many things that could go wrong. And on top of all that, it had to be here, in one of the holiest places in the world. Antonio just didn't feel comfortable, considering who he was and what he did for a living. He wasn't known for being paranoid, despite that being in the job description, but here it was a little different. With the plentiful statues and churches, he never felt quite alone with the eyes of God upon him. Antonio shivered. If things went according to plan, there would be no need to feel so agitated.

"Are you sure this is the place?" asked the little Italian.

"Yes," nodded Antonio as he made his way over to Romano's side.

Romano stuffed his hands into his pants pockets and walked forward onto the busier streets. There were plenty of people out, maximizing coverage from any possible snipers on the building tops. It was a worst case scenario to be shot from above, but things were crazy in Italy for the Vargas family. Every family who wanted to be _the _Family was out to get him, preferably with his head as their trophy.

Past the moving bodies of the crowds, Romano spotted a waving hand that, for some reason, he thought was meant for him. Lo and behold, he was correct. The hand belonged to his younger brother, who was smiling widely. Romano had to admit that he was rather relieved to see his brother after so long. How many months had it been since he had last saw Feliciano's annoyingly charming face? Too long. Even though they didn't always get along, they were still brothers, and like most brothers, they were happy to see one another.

"Romano!" cheered Feliciano with a sing-song voice.

"Quit waving, idiot. I'm here already," grinned Romano.

"Antonio!" exclaimed the younger Vargas in greeting. "Isn't it great here? There are so many buildings. It's so beautiful. Oh! And the market! There are so many cool things to buy. I want to go later, okay?"

Antonio eyed the man standing next to Feliciano. It wasn't Ludwig. It wasn't odd for a member of the Vargas family to have more than one bodyguard, but there was something eerie about this one. Antonio felt, for some strange reason, that he had seen this man before. He had seen his cold, dark eyes. They were hauntingly black, so much so that Antonio couldn't see his own reflection off of the man's irises.

"Whatever," muttered Romano. "We're here for family matters. We're not tourists."

"Ve…" whined the younger.

"Shall we go inside?" suggested the new bodyguard. His Italian was flawed. It was thick. A little too thick, as if he was trying to cover something up.

"Yes," nodded Antonio with a smile. "It's too crowded here for my liking, but first…" He turned to Romano and tossed the car keys. "Could you go to the car and pick up that file in the glove compartment?"

Romano scowled. "Why the hell should I do it, bastard?"

"I'll get lost. I already forgot where I parked the car!" Antonio gave off a nervous chuckle. "We'll be right here."

"Are you sure you should let him go by himself?" interrupted the other bodyguard.

"He doesn't like me around either way," admitted Antonio sadly. "He can take care of himself. It's just to the car."

"Shut up already. I'm going," snapped Romano with a quick roll of the eyes.

Within a matter of moments, the Spaniard could no longer see his young charge. He had blended easily with the crowd of people passing by on a tour to one of the many churches. Once he was clear out of view, Antonio turned back. His smile was gone, replaced with his infamously cold sneer. "Let Feliciano go, Corsica," he snarled.

"You remember me, do you?" chuckled the man.

"How could I forget the man who murdered my family?"

"You're still there? How long ago was that? Seven years?"

"Seven _long _years, _amigo_."

"Holding grudges isn't exactly healthy."

Antonio glared.

"How'd you know?" asked Corsica with a sigh. He revealed the gun he had been pressing to Feliciano's back. He had been standing so close that it had been impossible to see. In addition, he had covered his entire forearm with his coat, offering the weapon optimum concealment.

"That it was a trap? Simple."

"Explain, my favourite Spaniard, explained. You were never one for details."

"Feliciano's a happy person, but not _that _happy."

"I thought you couldn't read the atmosphere. You're such a two-faced asshole. That's probably why old Rome Vargas hired you, yes?"

"Cut the crap. What have you done with Ludwig?"

Corsica's face went blank, returning to the haunting stare he had become so celebrated for. "Wait and see, Carriedo. You'll be joining him. You and your little Italian."

Antonio couldn't help but grin. "Don't count on it. You won't catch him."

Romano's heart threatened to burst out of his chest. God. There were too many things to think about, and only one thing he needed to utterly focus on. There was nothing in the car, he knew that. He knew something was wrong the moment he saw his younger brother. They had been together, after all. There was no chance in hell that Romano would missed the obvious signs. Feliciano may have been talented in the arts and trade, but he himself was an expert when it came to the family's "business."

Feliciano had a tell: everything. The way he smiled, the way he stood, the way he pronounced his words. He was a terrible liar, which made Romano's job so much easier. He wasn't as useless as everybody had thought him to be. He was, to some degree, capable of being independent. He was strong by himself. It was just that he was stronger whenever his brother was around. Feliciano made up for all the skills that Romano lacked, completing a larger picture; the picture of an ideal Vargas heir.

That had been the plan when their mother had been expecting a second son. Grandfather Rome had decided it wise if there were two Vargas heirs. The initial thought was that it would be much harder for rival families to dethrone the reigning crime family if there were too separate heads to deal with. He had been correct in his thinking. It was just that he wasn't expecting one to be so talented and cowardly, and the other to be stubbornly brave but lazy.

And let it just be said that lazy is not the same thing as being untalented.

Romano wasn't entirely sure where he was supposed to go now. He already knew that Antonio had sacrificed himself for a few minutes of escape. He was surely being followed. In fact, he could feel eyes on his back. His overly cautious senses told him that there was somebody behind him, somebody equally blended in with the crowd of tourists and pastors and men and women and children of all ages. The only way to deal with this was to keep walking. Keep walking and don't look back. There had to be a way out. There always was.

From the corner of Romano's eye, he noticed that his one pursuer turned out to be two. As he matched the speed of the moving group, he identified a third. In a way, he was flattered. Whoever his enemy was, they clearly thought that Romano would need three men to take him down and out. Or they were simply cautious. It was probably the latter. Yes. Most likely.

Romano removed his jacket as he quickly turned a corner. He snatched a baseball cap from a store shop's front, and placed it upon his head. There was no telling how far behind his followers were, so he kept walking, making sharp turns whenever he could. He eventually found himself walking down a shallow alleyway, something very common in Vatican City. The rushed footsteps of his chasers echoed off of the stone cold walls on either side of him.

The alley led to traffic. It was noon, so the large flow of vehicles was partly due to everybody's lunch break. Perfect. Romano hurried across the street. There was no more time to think. It was quite literally do, or die. Cars honked, braked, swerved. Italian traffic was always an organized mess, something his hunters didn't seem used to. When Romano made it to the other side of the road, he ran.

And boy, could he run.

* * *

**A/N:**

Cliffhangers. Cliffhangers EVERYWHERE! :D

I hope you enjoyed. I'll be updating Acrylic Painted Smiles after Coffee, Guns, & Tea (which I promised would be a chapter dedicated to smut [you have been warned]).

Please remember to review! I love it when people review. It makes me feel special. :p

~K


	6. Chapter 6

Acrylic Painted Smiles

* * *

Chapter Six

_Run. Just run. _

There was no place to go. No place to hide. Yet it didn't matter. None of it did. Living was an essential goal, of course, but nobody could have trained him for this.

Romano's chest burned as he hurried through the busy streets, the sun pounding down overhead. He wasn't used to being alone like this, even if it _was_ Antonio he was away from. He had never spent more than twenty minutes out of another person's supervision, as was the life of an Italian crime syndicate heir. And yet, it was this exact loneliness that made him wish he hadn't left his annoying Spanish bodyguard behind. What on Earth was he going to do now?

One of his pursuers fired a warning bullet. The crowd of people dispersed, frightened. The metal projectile ricocheted off of a parked car and imbedded itself in a building wall. Romano ducked his head, feeling a queasy sense of panic erupt in his stomach. He couldn't stop, though.

_Run_, he thought. _Just. Run_.

It took Romano a few moments to realize that a vehicle was now in pursuit beside him. He risked a peak, wondering how much longer he would have to continue, and how many more he would have to outrun. Through his confusion, however, he noticed the driver roll down the window.

"_Holen Sie sich im Auto_!" shouted the driver. He had extremely pale hair that bordered on silver.

"What?" snapped Romano, dodging a lamppost as he ducked out of the way of another defiant bullet.

"Get in the car, loser!" repeated the driver in Italian.

Romano glanced over his shoulder. They were catching up. Damn those bastards! But what if this was a trap? He was one of the most wanted men in all of Italy. This stranger could be one of them, a police officer, or some lunatic with a death wish. Romano honestly couldn't say. But he did know that he was growing tired. Whatever the risk may have been, he was going to take it.

The car slowed just enough for Romano to open the passenger side door and slip inside. One of his followers shouted frantic commands into a cell phone while the other continued to fire. Much to Romano's surprise, the bullets deflected right off of the glass windows.

"Bulletproof," grinned the albino. "Expensive stuff."

"Who are you?" demanded Romano, barely able to form words through his panting. "What do you want from me?"

"Don't freak out, kid. I work for your grandfather. He told me to pick you up."

Romano eyed him suspiciously. The stranger rolled his eyes, peeved.

"'Rome wasn't built in a day,'" he recited. "'But it didn't take long to burn down.'"

Romano sighed in relief. Everybody had a passcode in the Vargas family. This one was his grandfather's. "Is he alright? Is he safe?" asked the Italian quickly.

"Of course. I'm taking you to him right now."

Romano's eyes widened in realization. "Wait!" he said. "What about my brother? They have him."

"Yes, I'm well aware. We're already working on it."

The car swerved left violently, reminding Romano to quickly apply his seatbelt.

"Was my brother with him?" asked the practically white-haired young man after another sudden left turn. Such a terrible driver. And they said that Italians were bad. This guy was clearly worse. One would even want to question whether or not he even had a license.

"Who?"

"My brother. Ludwig. Did you see him?"

"No," said Romano with a shake of the head. These two were related? They looked nothing alike. "There was another guy, though, with Feliciano."

"Damn," he cursed. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "That means they got him."

"Who got him?" The question was redundant. It really didn't matter to Romano. As long as he was alive, it didn't matter who was after whom.

_Just put a gun to your enemy's head_, his grandfather used to say. _If they're chicken shit, they won't bother you anymore. If they come back, pull the trigger the next time you see them._

The driver bit his lip in irritation and fury, almost to the point where he bled. "We're in too deep, kid. We might have been driven right into a trap. You shouldn't have come back."

"Wasn't up to me, bastard," huffed the Italian.

The car finally pulled up into a parking stall that belonged to a restaurant on the right. Romano got out of the car, suddenly thankful for stable ground. He looked around quickly. There were no other cars on the streets, no pedestrians that needed immediate once-overs, and no apparent threats from building roof tops.

"Get inside," ordered the driver. "Second floor. Fifth door on the right. I'll be right up."

Romano nodded.

The inside of the restaurant smelled of stale bread, sticky sauces, and garlic. There were flies buzzing around an unclean table, which had been abandoned for seemed like days. The restaurant's large kitchen in the back was still in working condition with a few cooks behind the stove, but the waiters and customers were nowhere to be seen. Everybody must have been gone for their siesta.

He climbed the stairs, noticing how creaky they were under his weight. The entire stairwell smelled of cigarettes and urine. Surely this wasn't the right place, was it? His grandfather had more taste than this.

Romano counted the doors on his right as he slowly made his way down the hall. He couldn't shake the nervous feeling that was growing in his gut.

One.

He saw two bodyguards by the door. His grandfather's. They nodded at him, and Romano nodded back. It was safe now. For the moment.

Two. Three. Four.

"Master Lovino," greeted one of the bodyguards. His voice was gruff and low, almost leaving his words without feeling. "Go right on in."

Five.

The door swung open slowly, and when there was a big enough crack, Romano slipped through. And when he did, his heart almost broke.

Rome was sitting in a chair, hands supporting his head. He had aged greatly these last few months. His hair was turning white, his beard was untrimmed, and his clothes looked as if they had been unwashed for days. The poor old man had dark circles under his eyes, and that lively spark of his had long since vanished.

"_Nonno_…" whispered Romano gently.

The elderly man looked up quickly, forcing a smile onto his elderly face. "Romano," he said. "I'm so glad to see you!" He opened his arms for an embrace, which the younger Italian gladly walked into. His grandfather's warmth seemed to be fading, but perhaps that was merely his imagination.

A frown replaced Rome's expression. "What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean?" said Romano. "You told him to come get me."

"Who to come and get you?"

"That driver downstairs."

Rome sighed, suddenly feeling ill. "Gilbert. No. He's…" The elder Vargas shook his head in dismay. Romano's jaw fell open slightly. No. God. No. This was trap. It had all been a trap. He should have trusted his first instinct.

"But I recognize him. I've seen him before. He knows your code."

"We've been compromised, _tesoro_. I should have seen it coming."

"What do you mean? Who's the mole?"

Rome placed his head back in his hands, too shaken to speak. Romano shook him by the shoulders. He was frustrated. He was furious. He was confused.

He was scared.

"_Nonno_," he stated firmly. "Tell me what's going on. I'll get us out of this mess. It's what you've trained me to do."

"No… We can't. We're done."

"_Nonno_! Talk to me. What's going on?"

"You're a clueless little shit, aren't you?" snapped a voice.

Romano turned, seeing Corsica, the man who had been standing with Feliciano earlier.

"You…" glared the younger Italian. "What have you done to him? What do you want from us?"

"I must say, Antonio did a very good job keeping you out of the loop."

"What's that Spanish bastard have to do with anything, _stronzo_?"

"I'd watch your mouth now, brat," sneered Corsica. He turned slightly, looking out of the doorway. "Bring the other one here. Hurry it up!"

The one large bodyguard that had been keeping watch over the room shoved Feliciano inside, merciless with his strength.

"_Ve…_" cried the young man as he fell to the floor. "_Fratello, nonno… _I don't understand."

Romano noticed the bruise under his young brother's eye. Rage. That was all he felt. He would have given Corsica the beating of his life had it not been for the gun in his enemy's hand. Romano felt his younger brother trembling by his side.

"Didn't it ever occur to you how easily your entire operation in Europe fell apart?" inquired the man, waving the weapon around as if it were nothing. "Didn't you ever wonder why it was happening? I like to call it the Roman Disaster. Say, Feli, do you know why the Roman Empire fell?"

Feliciano swallowed. "_P-p-p-er f-favore, s-singore._ D-don't point that thing at me!"

"Leave him alone, asshole!" exclaimed Romano. The gun was then pointed straight to his own head. He fell silent.

"Do _you _know why, Lovino?"

"The Roman Empire was too big," muttered Romano. "It practically caved in on itself."

"Well, yes. There's that. And…?"

"I don't know."

Corsica sighed. "You Italians… Too lazy to read your own damned history. There was a new threat from the East. 'The barbarians,' quote on quote. All it took was some quick thinking and strong muscle to burn down your capital."

"Why are you telling us this?" snapped Rome, who had been silent the entire time.

"Think of it as an allegory, _signore_," grimaced the man. "You're criminal empire is huge. It's impressive, don't get me wrong. It's just a shame that it's too large for you to handle. All it took was a new threat. Sleepers. Moles. Whatever you want to call them. All it took was some organization and WHAM!"

Corsica threw his fist in a boiling anger, hitting Romano in the side of the head with the butt of the gun. Romano's skin stung and he was sure he heard his skull crack. Fuck, that hurt.

"_Ve!_" cried his younger brother. "_Per favore! _Don't hurt him!"

"It was perfect," continued Corsica. "What better way to destroy something than from the inside?"

"What're you getting at, you fucking bastard?" hissed Romano through clenched teeth. God, that hurt!

"You're bodyguards, idiot. Every single important member of this so called 'family' of yours has one." Corsica knelt down, placing the tip of the gun just beneath Romano's chin. His voice became dangerously quiet, as if he was waiting for an eruption of noise to destroy the already tense atmosphere. "Do you know that the majority of bodyguards your grandfather has chosen have one thing in common? They all have violent pasts, pasts that they never really recovered from. There is no better subject to manipulate to do your bidding than an emotionally broken being. Why else would these idiots risk their lives day in and day out? It's not exactly a stable man's work."

"B-but," whimpered Feliciano. "Ludwig… He would never hurt me. He's kind, and surprisingly gentle. He wouldn't do such a thing! He saved me."

"Yes. He did. He was weak. And just for that…" Corsica stood up again. "Bring him in!" he barked. The two larger men standing outside dragged the German's limp body inside, dropping him harshly to the carpeted floor. There was no real response besides a grunt of pain.

"L-Ludwig!" stuttered the youngest Italian, crawling over. Feliciano dipped his head down, trying to find a pulse. A breath. Anything. "Ludwig! Are you okay? Are you alright? Can you hear me? Please talk to me, Ludwig. I'm right here. Please, answer me!"

Corsica cocked the gun.

"Please!" begged Feliciano. "Don't kill him. Don't kill him!"

"For a criminal heir, you're a pussy."

"Please…"

"No," said Romano with a shaky breath. He couldn't believe it. "What about Antonio? Was he behind this, too?"

"Let me share a secret with you," said Corsica, his shooting arm unwavering from his German target. "Did Antonio ever mention anything about his past?"

"No. Of course not. It wasn't his place to." And then the memory came flooding back. The one when they were back in Spain and Francis was warning him about distractions.

"When Antonio was six, his entire family was murdered. At the time, they were nobody extremely important. Or so the papers thought. Do you know what his middle name is?"

"He doesn't have one," snapped Romano.

"Oh, he has one. You just never gave a fuck, did you? It's Fernandez. Ring any bells?"

Romano blinked. It really didn't. Not right away, at least. He glanced nervously over to his grandfather, who was grinding his teeth. And then it hit him like a high-speed train. Fernandez. Of course! The Spanish crime syndicate that was abolished so many years ago. They had been partners with the Vargas family for years. But why? What had happened? Why would Antonio turn against him if their families had been on such good terms?

Because they hadn't been.

Romano had heard the story only once when his grandfather was explaining about honour amongst the Families. Never back out. Never give your word and then go back on it. Such a crime is punishable by death, as was the way of the Vargas. The Vargas had given strict instructions, to Romano's knowledge, which were never followed. As punishment, and mainly to cover their own tracks, the entire Fernandez family was ordered to be executed. Only the blood related, however. One could always use extra thugs.

So Antonio was actually…

The look of betrayal was clear on Romano's face. How could he have been so blind? So stupid? So… He didn't even know anymore.

"So he wants to get back at my family," he muttered to himself.

"For most of them, too. Did you know that most of your guards are linked to crimes that your family has committed against them? Poor planning, if you ask me. They all want a taste of Vargas blood."

"But what's in it for you?"

Corsica shrugged. "I'm just doing what I was told to do by my boss. It's time the Corsican Family finally takes a rise in Italy, and then all of Europe. And to think, all I had to do was tempt them with cold, backstabbing revenge. But of course, I get the great pleasure of taking out the remaining members of the Vargas all by myself." His grip on the trigger tightened.

The sound of a bullet rang into the still air.

Blood then pooled onto the floor.

* * *

**A/N:**

I regret nothing. From this point on, I'm pretty sure I have no intention of making this easy on your feelings. :D _Honhonhon...~_

Thank you all so much for reading! Please remember to review. Reviews feed my soul. NOM.

I am, however, terribly sorry that it took nearly a month to get his up for you guys. I had my laptop taken away because of... *ahem* poor grades at school. Don't worry, though. When I get it back in September, I'll write like a madwoman for you all.

Lots of love, my darlings!

~K


	7. Chapter 7

Acrylic Painted Smiles

* * *

Chapter Seven

Romano flinched.

A red spot bloomed on his chest, dripping to the floor, slowly and painfully bringing him back to reality. His eyes felt dry, his head was light, and his breath was dangerously shallow. It was a numbing experience at first. When the bullet ripped past his skin, he couldn't remember a thing. He forgot how to talk, breathe, and move. His instincts, as well as his faith, suddenly abandoned him as his eyes fell upon the shooter behind Corsica. It was a shooter with beautifully violent green eyes.

"Antonio," he whispered in shock.

He wanted to scream at the Spaniard. He wanted to tell him to go to Hell for what he had done, but his vision blurred. And after the blurring, there was nothing. Romano closed his eyes and fell into the trembling arms of his younger brother.

"What the fuck was that?" snapped Corsica. He turned on his heels to face Antonio, and then quickly closed the distance between them so that they were face to face. "I said I was the one to take them out, you asshole!"

"That wasn't the plan," said the Spaniard coolly. "We have our orders to take them to Milan. Or would you rather go back and let me tell them how you had your own agenda?"

"Oh, come on, _cazzo_! You just fucking shot our golden goose. Who are you to talk?"

Antonio didn't answer. Instead, he turned and walked out the same way he had come in, wearing a grim expression on his face.

"Roma," smiled his mother. "Play nice with your brother."

"But he's supposed to learn how to take the ball from me," frowned the little child. He expertly manoeuvered the soccer ball to the left as young Feliciano charged to try and get it.

"Ve…" whined the younger boy. "Let me play, _fratello_."

The boy looked on the verge of crying, knowing that his attempts to steal the ball away would be to no avail. Romano gave off a small sigh, kicking the ball away from him to offer Feliciano the chance. The younger Vargas gave off a cheer, suddenly all smiles again. "_Grazie, fratello_!" he smiled widely.

"Yeah, yeah…" muttered Romano.

Their mother giggled. She was sitting on the terrace under the shade of a patio table umbrella. A tea set had been elegantly laid out on the table's surface; the pot freshly made and brought out by the servants from the kitchen. She was a beautiful and fair woman, but far too delicate for this lifestyle. "That's my good boy," she smiled at Romano.

A woman and a young man came from around the corner of the garden, just as finely dressed as their mother. The new lady had long, flowing brown hair, a cute flower tucked just behind her ear. The man also had brown hair, pale skin, and captivating eyes that almost looked violet in the sunlight.

"Mrs. and Mr. Edelstein!" gasped their mother in delighted glee. She stood up from her chair, her dress almost touching the ground. "I was not expecting you until after noon."

"Our driver was unexpectedly efficient," explained the man.

"Oh, I'm not complaining, my dear," she laughed as she placed kisses on the both of them. "Please, come and sit. Tea has just been prepared."

A silver haired man approached from just behind, stiff and not amused. He pulled the chair out for Mrs. Elizabeta Edelstein, allowing her to sit comfortably. He, however, did not pay much heed to Mr. Roderich Edelstein. There was a look of bitterness on his face, as well as in his dark crimson eyes. Roderich paid very little attention, though.

"This is Gilbert," introduced Elizabeta. "The bodyguard your husband assigned to us."

"Oh," smiled their mother politely. "I remember quite well. How is your younger brother, Mr. Beilshmidt?"

The albino seemed irritated, but forced a neutral expression onto his face. "He's fine, I suppose. I'm not allowed to see him for a while, though."

"He's in the finest care money can buy," reassured Roderich. "There's no need to worry."

The bodyguard's fists clenched so tight that his knuckles turned white. Of course, he was already a very pale man, so the difference was hard to see. He said nothing to the man, however, worried that any word to escape his lips would be his undoing.

Romano and Feliciano had grown bored of their game and found themselves wandering over to either side of their mother.

"Oh!" squealed Elizabeta in delight. "They grow up so fast, don't they?"

"Don't worry, my dear. I'm sure you'll have your own very soon," their mother winked at Roderich, who turned his head to avoid alerting them of a slight blush.

Romano glanced over at the bodyguard, who was staring off at something in the distance. He didn't seem very bodyguard-like. In fact, he scared Romano quite a bit. There was a fresh sort of violence in his eyes that gave him the chills. There was something off about this man, as if he had done something terrible. Romano had learned that his family didn't exactly conduct in legal activity, but this man was something else entirely. He looked as if he had done horrible things. Maybe he even killed a man.

But of course, they were just wild assumptions of the youthful.

Right?

Romano awoke from his dream with a start, legs and arms flailing as he jolted upright. Those haunting red eyes felt forever burnt into the back of his mind. The moment the cold morning air hit his skin, he clenched at his chest, suddenly feeling the throbbing from where the bullet had entered. Somebody had bandaged him up, and rather neatly, too.

He looked around, heart still racing. The amount of confusion that washed over him was enough to make him ill. All he could remember was a loud, frightening sound of gunfire; a single shot and then blackness. He couldn't remember the terrified scream his brother gave as he went under, or the way that Corsica threw a fit at… at…

"Antonio?" he said aloud. The word felt awkward on his tongue. He barely recognized his voice. How long had it been since he blacked out? Where was he? Where were his brother and grandfather? All these questions he could have asked, and yet the one thing that escaped his lips was the name of his shooter.

The room was empty, save the bed that he lay upon and a chair across the room. The walls were painted a soft cream colour, and a single square window was to his left. There was nothing to see but grey sky, and a lonely little bird perched on a tree branch. There were no mountains to show him the way north, and no sea to show him the way south. He was stuck in a room in the middle of nowhere.

Romano closed his eyes, trying desperately to remember something. He could recall Antonio talking calmly; almost too calmly. His mouth formed the word _Milan_ in Romano's mind. Milan? Was that where he was? Even if it wasn't, it wasn't going to do him much good unless he found a way to get out.

He struggled to swing his legs over the side of the bed. His bare feet touched the cold hardwood floor. As he put his weight upon one leg, he collapsed forward, suddenly too dizzy to maintain balance. He landed on the floor with a thud and a groan, frustration already mounting.

He felt ill, and disgusted. All he could think about, despite his situation, was that damn Spaniard. How could he have been so stupid? How could have he been so blind? It had been Antonio all along, gaining his trust just to throw it right back in his face. He wanted to cry, he really did, but Romano frowned at himself in fury. This was not the time to break down over some asshole.

But how could he think that? That smiling, foolish, happy man couldn't possibly have been responsible for this. Not Antonio. Not _his_ Antonio. This person was somebody else. There had to be an explanation. Antonio wouldn't do this to him, especially because–

The door to the room swung open, a young woman entering quickly.

"Are you alright?" she gasped, rushing over to help Romano back up.

He swatted her hands away like flies. "Get away from me!" he snapped.

"Calm down, Lovino. I'm here to help you." There was a warning tone in her voice.

"Where the hell am I? Where are my brother and grandfather?"

"I said calm down," she repeated, finally grasping onto his flailing arms. "Don't you remember me, Lovino? I was a friend of your mother's."

Romano stopped for a moment, taking a quick glance at the woman's face. Her long brown hair was still as long and beautiful as he remembered. "Mrs. Edelstein?" he said slowly, unsure.

"I'm afraid it's just Elizabeta _Héderváry_, now."

"Ah," he nodded. "I heard you got divorced. Sorry."

She shrugged. "Let me help you up."

"Where are we?"

"Vienna."

Romano frowned. "Vienna… _Austria_?"

"I don't think there's any other."

"How did… _How?_" It was all he could say.

"Gilbert, my ex-husbands bodyguard… He brought you and your family here after what happened in the Vatican City. You're safe, if that's what you're concerned about. Your brother is currently in the room down the hall, looking after Gilbert's younger brother."

"What of my grandfather?"

"He's talking with some Spaniard. Apparently he used to work with Gilbert in the army. I'm not sure, though I've been told they were old friends."

Romano felt his heart flip and then shatter. He shot straight to his feet, though the pain came flying back. He stabilized himself against the wall, struggling to pull himself along.

"You must stay in bed!" warned Elizabeta, trying to force him back.

"Get out of my way!" he snarled.

Downstairs, Rome was sitting in a kitchen chair, talking in low grumbles when Romano burst into the room. "Lovi!" he cried. "You're up."

"Get the fuck away from him, you bastard!" Romano screamed at Antonio, who was somewhat stunned. He grabbed onto his grandfather's arm, tugging him harshly out of his seat. "Don't you dare come near me or my family!"

"Lovi," said Rome calmly. "It's alright."

"Like fuck it is! What's the son of a bitch doing here, _nonno_?"

"I'm sorry," apologized Elizabeta. "I tried to get him back into bed, but…"

"It's quite fine," nodded Rome.

"Lovino," started Antonio. He stood up from the table, but stopped when he saw Romano take a step back.

"Get the fuck away from me, _cazzo_!"

"Lovi, let me explain for a moment," sighed Rome.

"Jesus!" shouted Gilbert as he entered the room. "Could you quiet down? My brother's still asleep." The party of five in the kitchen silenced, an unbearable awkwardness lingering in the air.

"Perhaps you should take a seat," suggested Rome. "And a shirt, aren't you cold? Elizabeta, dearest, if you would…"

"Of course, I'll be right back." She left the room in a hurry, returning moments later with an oversized white t-shirt.

Gilbert and Antonio sat down on the other end of the table, looking at Lovino and Elizabeta as they took their own seats. Rome prepared a small dish of peanut butter crackers and tea, which unfortunately were left untouched as the four struggled to begin their conversation. He eventually sat down beside his grandson, keeping a straight face.

"You must have a lot of questions," commented Antonio in a soft voice.

"You think?" growled Romano, teeth clenched.

"There's no need to be hostile," said his grandfather. He placed an old hand on Romano's shoulder, to tell him that it was all fine. "It was a part of the plan."

"What plan?"

"I knew for quite some time that the Vargas family wouldn't last, I just didn't take into account how quickly the takeover would happen. I ordered Gilbert and Antonio to stage our deaths on our way here. Nobody knows we're alive now, so the Corsicas will not be looking for us. It was the only way to ensure our safety."

Romano was outraged. "What? So we're going to slump around and let them take the business? It's ridiculous!"

"It's better to be living and cautious than a dead fool," frowned Rome gravely, words of wisdom barely registering in Romano's young head.

"If it was supposed to be staged, then why the fuck did you shoot me, asshole?" Romano asked.

"It was a blank round," the Spaniard shrugged like it was nothing. "I had to convince Corsica that I was working with him. Otherwise he really would have killed you."

Romano felt his stomach twist into knots. He stood up from the table light headed. "So what do we do?" he said quietly, unable to bring any rage into his voice.

"What do you mean?" inquired Rome.

"Are you just going to let them run us over like weeds? What the fuck, _nonno_! We're Vargas. We don't just lie down and die."

"Please, speak quietly," warned the eldest in the room. "You must understand this was our only option."

"Then we'll take it all back. We'll rip it all right from under their feet!"

"No!" growled Rome. "Do not seek revenge, Lovino. Your father and mother sacrificed much to ensure your survival. Don't let it go to waste."

"Then what are we going to do? Live like we never existed? How can you live with that?"

"Because it is necessary," commented Antonio in a low voice. "Now speak now more, Lovino. You'll awaken Ludwig."

"Shut the fuck up! Why are you even here? Get the fuck away from me."

"That's not up to you," he retorted sharply. Irritation was mounting in his green eyes, but he struggled to hide his emotions. "I'm still employed as a bodyguard of the Vargas family."

"Like hell you are!"

"I said to speak quietly, Lovino. Ludwig needs his rest. And so do you."

"Fuck that! You fucking shot me."

"It was–"

"Fucking necessary, I got that," snarled Romano.

"Lovino, just hear me out."

"Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?"

"Lovino–"

"Shut up and get out! I don't want to see you again, you fucking _capice_?!"

Romano turned quickly, removing himself from the room before he broke something. The anger that he felt filled him to the brim, threatening to overflow from his eyes. The tears threatened to poor over just as he escaped the kitchen.

When they all heard the slam of a bedroom door, Antonio slumped in his chair, miserable.

"I could have handled that better," he muttered disappointedly to himself.

* * *

A/N:

I'm so so so so so sorry that I haven't updated in forever.

I've been sick lately, and I have had time to write...

On a side note, I think Romano needs some anger management sessions. Although, he did get shot in the chest, so...

Leave a comment! You know how they make me feel better.

I love you all!


	8. Chapter 8

Acrylic Painted Smiles

* * *

Chapter Eight

"Lovino," shouted Antonio. He pounded on the door with his fist, trying to at least irritate the Italian into a response. "Lovino, open the door."

There was still no response.

Maybe he was asleep? With his injuries, it wouldn't have been a surprise. Antonio had made sure to hit the Italian square in the chest, but he was also immensely sure that he missed anything major. That was the problem with blank cartridges. No bullet, but plenty of explosive powder. The damage would have spread out, decreasing direct damage, but what Antonio was worried about were the burns left behind. Feeling defeated, Antonio slumped against the door, sitting with his back against it.

"Hey," he said slowly. "If you're awake, I just want you to listen, okay? You don't have to say anything. In fact, that might be easier for me." He looked down at his feet guiltily. "I don't know what you've heard, but I don't want to lie to you, either." He paused to take a breath and close his eyes. The silence was calm and comforting in a way. "My name is Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. I was born in _La Jonquera_, _España_. I think I started out like you, in a way. I was the heir to my family's branch of 'business.'

"I guess that all changed when your father came to the region. I remember everyone making such a fuss about his arrival. I didn't exactly know what to do, so I stayed out of the way. My father and your father got to talking quickly. Nobody knew what had been said that day, but all I know is that we began working for the Vargas back in Italy. By doing so, we gained land and opportunity right back at home. Rival families suddenly seemed to drop like flies, leaving us with all the goods.

"I was there, you know, when my family was murdered. My mother forced me to hide in the closet. She gave me a gun and told me to shoot if the doors opened. If it was her, she would say that it was before she came to get me. She kissed me on the forehead before locking me in. I waited the whole night for her to get me, but she never came back. All I could hear was gunfire.

"The police found me two days later. I think I shot at one of them out of surprise," he chuckled darkly. "It was an accident of course, but they dragged me to the station like I was the culprit responsible. When everything was cleared up, they told me that only the servants survived. They had been released shortly before the shooting began. My mother and father, however… Their bodies were nowhere to be found. They believed without a doubt that they were dead.

"I searched for years before I found one of the shooters. Boy, did I lose it. I served time for beating him to death. Your father found me in jail a month after. He pulled some strings, I think, to get me out of there. He told me the truth about what happened that night. He seemed genuinely sorry. I didn't believe him, at first.

"He gave me clothes, a place to live, and then he offered me a job." Antonio paused. "I used to babysit you, do you remember? You were five, I think. Boy, were you a feisty brat." Antonio chuckled to himself, finding a happier memory. "I think it was because of you I promised never to have kids…

"Anyways, your father told me one day that there was going to be a huge celebration due to recent success for the business in Russia and China, but I noticed that he wasn't quite himself. He started to talk all low and in whispers. The last thing he said to me was to take care of you, by whatever means necessary. It sorted sounded like his last Will and Testament. That night, the villa was attacked, and I suddenly knew why your father had chosen me of all people.

"I don't know where you were at the time, but I was pretty sure you felt the same way I did when my family was killed. I lost myself for a while. It wasn't pretty. The moment I knew you were safe, I asked your grandfather to send me overseas for training. When I came back, he shipped us both off to Spain. Italian's rarely ever go to Spain for a vacation, so I figured something was up. I did some digging.

"Corsica contacted me about a week after we left Italy. He told me he was one of the shooters that killed my family, and I recognized him, too, from the police lineup. He told me how they were hired by the Vargas and everything. I was angry, don't get me wrong, but it was information I already knew. He tried to convince me to join him. I suppose you think I did, which was a part of the plan. The more you were convinced that I was against you, the safer you were.

"I told Rome, of course. We orchestrated an escape using Milan as a cover. They won't be looking for you for a while, maybe forever, as long as you stay out of the way."

The door to his bedroom creaked open slowly, a pouting Italian face peering out. Antonio stood up, trying to look Romano in the eyes. He didn't say anything, afraid to have the door slammed in his face.

"I don't want to hear your life story, asshole," Romano mumbled. His eyes were cast to the floor.

They stood like that for a moment longer, trying to sense what to do next.

"Would you…" began Antonio softly. "Would you like something eat?"

"Not really."

"Something to drink?"

"I'm fine," sighed Romano, exhausted. "I just want to sleep now."

"Then I should change your bandages before you do."

Antonio let himself in, but Romano didn't seem to argue. He went and sat down on the bed's edge, bare feet on the cold floor. The Spaniard shuffled through a drawer of the bedside table until he found some fresh bandages. "I'm going to need you to take off your shirt," he said sheepishly.

Romano looked down at the floor, suddenly feeling his face heat up in embarrassment. With slow movements, he struggled to pull the piece of clothing over his head. The soreness seemed to have spread to his arm, hampering his attempt to take it off. Antonio hesitantly aided him, slipping the t-shirt over his shoulders and then head.

Romano shifted uneasily when he felt Antonio's hands gently peeled away the soiled bandages around his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin upon his own. Antonio inspected the blooming purple bruise across the young man's chest. The plastic bullet that he had shot earlier instead of a live round still did enough damage to pierce through the skin and cause bleeding. It was the impact that knocked Romano out.

"Quit staring, bastard," mumbled the Italian.

"Ah, right, sorry." Antonio began re-wrapping the bandages. His hands lingered for a moment, but he stood up quickly, allowing Romano to put his shirt back on. "I'll be back later with dinner."

"Whatever," muttered Romano. He slipped under the blankets, turning onto his side before closing his eyes.

"I'll be right outside if you need me."

* * *

Gilbert had been talking on the phone for the past hour, studiously taking down notes in a small ledger that he had. Antonio sat next to him at the table, trying his best not to eavesdrop.

"Yes, I did," the silver-haired man frowned. "_Neine_. That's not the point, Roderich. They wanted out… _Ja_. That's what I said, but it's not up to me, now is it? You'll be here when?" Gilbert glanced down at the watch around his wrist. "Fine. _Ja_." And then a moment later, "_Ich liebe dich_." There was a cheeky grin on his face. Roderich on the other end of the phone started yelling through the receiver, prompting Gilbert to hang up with an amused chuckle.

"Who was that?" questioned Antonio innocently.

"Roderich."

"And what did he say?"

"He wasn't exactly happy that we brought them to his home, but I took the wrap for you. He'll be back in around two hours."

"Where'd he go?"

"He was finishing up a deal in Serbia."

"_Without_ you? Isn't that dangerous? They aren't exactly friendly towards Austrians."

"He was rather insistent, that aristocratic pain in the ass. He said I'd make a scene."

"I think he may have been right."

"Shut up."

Antonio shrugged with a smile.

"So what have you been up to?" asked Gilbert, putting away the notebook.

"Hm?"

"Fall in love yet?"

Antonio coughed, caught off guard. "W-what?"

"Did you meet any cute girls while you were in Spain?"

The Spaniard sighed in relief. "No. No I didn't."

"Shame. Spanish girls have nice asses and know how to cook."

"Yeah, well… Don't you bat for the other team?"

"Shut up." Gilbert punched him in the shoulder.

"Antonio?" whispered a small voice.

Antonio looked over his shoulder and saw Romano poking his head around the edge of the door frame. He stood up immediately, walking over. The little Italian looked wobbly on his feet.

"What is it?" he asked, concerned. "Are you okay?"

"I was thirsty."

"You could have just called me," sighed Antonio. He hurried over to a cupboard and took a glass. He filled it with the water from a nearby kettle on the kitchen counter before handing it to him.

"I did call you, bastard. You just didn't hear me."

"I'm sorry. I'll take you back to your room," he offered, but was shrugged off.

"It's okay. I can get there by myself."

When the little Italian left, Antonio followed him to the door, just to make sure he didn't have trouble getting back up the stairs.

"What the fuck was that?" frowned Gilbert.

"What?"

"You're smitten. I can tell."

"W-what? No. Not at all."

"I've never seen you pay that much attention to a principal."

"He's injured. I _need_ to pay attention to him."

"Not _that_ much. Holy cow! Congrats man. You bagged a good one."

"I didn't bag anyone, Gil. _Callate_."

"Why're you so red? _Meine Gott_, I'm so proud, dude!"

"I'm not going to justify any of that with a response," sighed Antonio.

And yet his heart went _thump, thump, thump_, eager to answer.

* * *

A/N:

It ain't over yet. I'm going to be viciously cruel. And I won't regret a thing.

MWUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

~K


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